Protector
by theonethatdies
Summary: I can’t fix you.” “Who says I’m broken?” “Everyone is broken.” “I don’t need fixing.” “But I do.” Love is found amidst pain and near-death. Sylar/Peter slash. Oneshot. M for violence and sex.


_**Protector**_

A Heroes fanfic by theonethatdies

**A/N: So. This is a oneshot and probably my last Heroes fic for a while (I'm getting a little fatigued). I'm very very sorry if you were holding out for the last chapter of **_**1941**_**, but my computer lost the file, so even though I have been writing, I can't continue with it anymore. I'm so so sorry.**

**But hey, this frees me up for other stories; gotta look on the bright side, right? Right! **

**So, here you are, a new story. I hope you guys all enjoy it!**

**DISCLAIMERS: I do not and will never own Heroes. That makes me very unhappy.**

**Also, if you are under the age of adulthood and still somehow reading this, or if hot gay buttsecks offends you, GET YO ASS OUTTA HERE.**

***

_Pant pant pant_… Peter ran for his life down the long, sterile hallway of the Primatech Paper building. His rapid footsteps reverberated off the walls, magnifying them and making him feel like he was being chased by millions of sociopaths when in fact there was only one. Only one, yet with the power of a thousand armies.

Sylar, in stark contrast, was having the time of his life. He lived for the thrill of the hunt; he could sense the fear roiling over Peter Petrelli, and it intoxicated him, fueled him. He was in his element. A sneer curled over his lips as he pounced on Peter.

***

Flying was the biggest thrill Peter Petrelli had ever experienced. The world itself unfolded like a map before him, he could travel faster than any car or train or plane. The air rushing past his face sent adrenaline racing through his veins. He never felt so alive.

Now, with the clouds below him and empty sky above, Peter let a smile cross his lips for the first time in months. It had been a rough year for him; his brother had been rounding up and attempting to kill him and those like him, and their relationship, once tighter than most would guess, began to unravel. Now, they barely spoke, and Peter had since been consumed with a bitterness usually reserved for 40-something divorcees.

Peter snapped his attention back to the present. _I have a job to do_, he reminded himself. _I'm not just flying for my health._ He had been "recruited" (some would say "forced") into doing a job for the Company: to go to the Primatech building in Texas to retrieve an important item, then bring it back to New York. Of course, he could just teleport, but Peter preferred flying. It gave him time to clear his head, at least.

When he finally made it to the Primatech building, black hair windswept and brown eyes watering, he was greeted warmly by Noah Bennett. The conversation went something like this:

"Peter! How good to see you."

"Noah. I see you're still a talented bullshitter."

And then he wondered why Noah didn't speak any more after that.

***

Sylar was smart. This much he knew. He had killed dozens upon dozens of people, and he hadn't been caught; this was proof of his intelligence. He had managed to cheat death hundreds of times; more proof of his intelligence. And, now, he was hiding out in Odessa disguised as his nemesis, Noah Bennett.

Sylar was smart.

***

The bland white elevator descended fifty floors underground. Peter, trying to pass the time, calculated that that was a descent of about 500 feet; this was about the distance he liked to keep away from his brother Nathan at all times now.

Ever since Nathan had betrayed him and those like him, those with powers, he couldn't so much as be in the same room as Nathan without being overcome with anger. There was one incident that Peter recalled vividly…

_**Flashback**_

It was at their mother's funeral. She had died when her Virgin Atlantic flight to Paris lost power and went down into the ocean. At least, that was the theory; nobody had been able to locate the plane or the bodies of its passengers.

The casket sitting at the front of the church was, therefore, empty, and Peter could sympathize; he felt exactly the same. Of course, he didn't get along particularly well with Angela Petrelli, but he at least owed it to her memory, as her son, to attend her funeral. Didn't he?

The funeral service was a funeral service; that is, moving, heartfelt, and total bullshit. Of course, Peter wouldn't expect anything less from his brother Nathan, whose political career and personal life were fueled by his unparalleled ability to lie with a perfectly straight face. It sounded like Nathan had gotten his best writers to craft his speech for the funeral; he spoke with an eloquence that Peter knew he didn't possess naturally. _Maybe Satan possessed him…_ he thought, before dismissing it as ridiculous. _Satan wouldn't stoop so low_.

The reception came, and with it, the opportunity to imbibe more alcohol than anyone else in recorded history. Five minutes after the service, Peter had already downed his first glass of champagne. Ten minutes after, he had increased his pace and gotten down three. Thirty minutes after, he was ready to confront his brother, and he presented the perfect target when he walked up to the bar. Their argument would have made Shakespeare himself proud.

Peter: "Hey, fuckface, I'm glad to see you made it. I thought you would be too busy fucking Danko to show your face."

Nathan: "Excuse me?"

Peter: "What, you think we didn't know? The whole fucking world knows, Nathan."

Nathan: "Well, at least I'm not a drunken failure. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd prefer not to make a scene. It's disrespectful." At this, Nathan spun around and tried to walk away.

Peter, shouting: "_Disrespectful_?! Since when have you fucking cared about respect?! You didn't respect me or Mom when you tried to fucking LOCK US AWAY!"

Nathan, also shouting: "Well, I'm sorry that I was trying to do what I thought was right! And what fucking right do you have to lecture me about respect?!"

Peter: "I have every fucking right, Nathan!"

Nathan: "Like hell you do!"

At this, the argument dissolved into fisticuffs. Peter's only regret that night, as he lay in his bed, bruised and cut, was that he didn't manage to hit Nathan with more champagne bottles.

_**End Flashback**_

Peter was jolted out his reverie by the _ding! _of the elevator as its doors opened. He walked out into the hallway stretching away in front of them, white and lifeless. Peter could practically feel his soul slowly slipping away with every footstep reverberating off the walls. _So this is what it feels like to have a desk job_, he thought.

The hallway took an exact 90-degree turn at its end, so Peter couldn't see where it led until he went past it. He soon realized that something was very very wrong. The mocking voice behind him clued him in: "Hello, Peter."

Peter felt chills rush up and down his spine. Adrenaline, burning hot, shot through his body as his heart began to hammer. He felt his mouth move, forming a single word: "Sylar." Then, his body flew through the air towards the dead-end wall in front of him.

***

Sylar smirked as he strode towards his prey confidently. He felt the familiar hunger stir in his brain. _Soon, _he thought, placing the words in Peter's head using the late Matt Parkman's ability, _You will be mine_.

Suddenly morphing back into Bennett, Sylar smirked as Peter lay in pain on the sterile floor. "Do you know why they built this hallway, Peter?" he said in Bennett's smug, emotionless monotone. Peter groaned and gasped on the floor in response. Sylar chuckled, a sound that sent ice through Peter's heart.

"Neither do I," he said. "I suppose they mostly used it for storage. You know, for paper, toner, old copiers, and now-" he raised his finger in preparation, "-for bodies."

A crimson line traced across Peter's forehead as he screamed in extreme pain. Sylar was being careful to cut slowly, so as to savor this moment, burn it into his memory forever. He felt his pleasure begin to grow.

"You know, Peter," he said, morphing back into his own body, "I've always had a… _special_ fondness for you."

Through his screams, Peter managed to spit out a response: "You sick freak."

Sylar tossed Peter down towards the other end of the hallway. "I am NOT a freak!" he yelled as Peter slammed into the other wall. Blood was pouring out of Peter's forehead now, a dark gush that would not stop. He tried frantically to summon up Claire's image, to heal himself before he died-… "Ah ah ah," said Sylar, shaking his finger. "No healing for you."

Instead, Peter felt a dizzying array of images burst forth into his mind, each one more colorful, more beautiful, and more disturbing than the last. Sylar, morphing into everyone he knew; Nathan melting into what looked like ice but burned to the touch; Angela, his late mother, falling down into the sea, swallowed up by a great monster. And he felt himself being swallowed with her, felt the endless fall as his spirit separated from his body.

***

_Pain. There is only pain. Love has died. All I feel is pain…_ A dark swirl of color and movement confronted Peter. He felt as if he were seeing a film projected in front of him; he was disconnected from what he saw. Gradually, the images congealed into a coherent whole, floating closer towards him till they covered his field of vision; at this point, he could feel the rest of his body stirring.

He felt some cool, hard surface beneath him, like a table in a lab. He was lying on his back. It was nighttime; he knew because he could see the stars glittering through a window on his right side, and because the room was mostly dark. Lights floated across the ceiling; Peter realized that they must be from traffic down below, as must be the endless succession of honks and engines and shouts.

Peter sat up with great difficulty and immediately became dizzy. That, combined with the darkness of the room, made it impossible to see the shadowy figure standing in the corner of the far wall. Only when he heard a familiar voice say, "Welcome back, Peter," did he snap back into focus.

***

Peter's head was half-sliced open; the blood rushing down his face onto the white tile and the pink visible brain was more than enough confirmation of that. Sylar marveled at the limp body he held. _Life… So beautiful, yet so fragile._ With one swift motion, he could snap Peter's body in half like a twig. He could easily crush him by collapsing the ceiling, or simply slice his throat. _So many ways to die…_

But there was something holding him back. Something in the way that Peter's hair, straggly and bloodied but still somehow luxuriant, hung over his face. Or in his expression; even though his face was almost completely covered in crimson, Peter's eyes were closed peacefully and his mouth curved ever-so-slightly upward in an almost contented half-smile. Whatever it was, Sylar suddenly became aware that he couldn't kill Peter. Not yet.

He picked up Peter's body; the man's helplessness was endearing, and the way he subconsciously clung to Sylar's shirt, even this close to death, made odd feelings stir up inside him. He felt strangely… attached to Peter, like there was some sort of bond between them. He quickly dismissed the feeling, however. _I can't have emotion. Not when I am who I am._

The elevator let out a soft "ding!" as the doors opened. Sylar stepped in, Peter in his arms, and the two shot upwards. In the reflection of the elevator doors, Sylar saw himself and stopped short. Matted with blood from the battle, a grim, hardened expression on his face, he looked like he'd been through hell. He felt age in his bones and muscles. He wouldn't die, most likely; barring assassination, Claire's healing power would probably keep him alive forever. But he still aged, and he felt it every day.

10 years had passed since that first battle in Kirby Plaza. Sylar was in his late 30's now, but looked at least five years older than that. Being human was something he'd lost touch with. But Sylar felt things when Peter was around, things that weren't common. Sure, he felt the familiar pity for him, as he did for most people; with greater power comes greater awareness of your superiority.

However, there was a different feeling that Peter caused, like a small fire in the pit of his stomach. Sylar was a little bit afraid of it, but every time he thought about it, whether consciously or not, a smile would cross his otherwise grim features.

He decided to follow that feeling and see where it led him. So, just before the elevator let them off at the main floor, Sylar (using the power he'd stolen from Hiro long ago) whisked himself and Peter away, to the first location he could think of: the watch shop in New York where he once worked. It was safe, it was unassuming, and it was – most importantly – abandoned.

So now he stood, in the corner of the shop's back room, hidden in shadow as Peter slowly stirred on the table. Only when Peter sat up did he say anything. And when he did, Peter's reaction was truly unexpected.

***

"Am I dead?" Peter asked. He certainly _felt_ alive enough, it was true; his heart was pulsing gently, his breathing was soft and even. He could hear his voice perfectly clear, and he could feel a draft coming through one of the windows. He could even identify the gummy taste in his mouth as dehydration; _I must've been out for a while to be this thirsty_.

"No," said Sylar, and Peter felt his heart sink a little bit.  
"Are you going to kill me?" he asked.

Sylar answered, "I don't know."

Peter wasn't afraid of death or even Sylar anymore, but still, the thought of his head being sliced open-… his hand shot up to his forehead. The skin there was clean and perfectly healed.

"You healed in your sleep," said Sylar, stepping forward into the light. Peter noticed his face for the first time. It was worn and tired, and it looked a little like he'd been crying. Normally, Peter would've dismissed this. The man was a _serial killer_, after all. But here he was, alive, when Sylar could've easily killed him.

"You've been crying," he said after a pause. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," said Sylar. His voice was quiet and weary. Peter lowered himself back down onto the table and stared up at the ceiling.

"Why?" he asked.

"Are you my therapist?" Sylar snapped.

Peter didn't respond. Sylar sighed. "I've been crying because when I look back, all I see is death. I've killed everyone who's ever been close to me. My mother, my father, Elle… It's strange. I've never thought about it before, but now that I do, I realize that I'm lonely. But whenever someone gets close to me, I slice their head open."

"Or when they have something you want." Peter said, chuckling a little bit. Sylar raised an eyebrow.

"Morbid, aren't we?"

"Maybe a little."

There was a pause. Peter's eyes stayed locked on the ceiling as he began to speak again, slowly. "I'm not afraid of you anymore. I stopped being afraid a long time ago. Death isn't the worst thing that can happen to me anymore, since I haven't really felt alive, not even when you were about to kill me. My brother abandoned me. My mother and father are both dead. My personal life has gone to hell. I have no friends, no enemies, nobody. I guess we both push people away. I just let them stay alive when I do."

Both of them were silent for a long time. "I can't fix you," Sylar said quietly.

"What?"

"I can't fix you. I took off the top of your head, I saw your brain. I can normally identify what needs to go where, what I need to take for myself, what might be wrong. But I couldn't with you. I can't fix you."

"Who says I'm broken?"

"Everyone is broken."

"I don't need fixing."

"But I do."

Suddenly, Sylar was on top of Peter, forcing his mouth open with his tongue. Peter, too surprised to react, let the other man in. Their tongues tangled together. Sylar let out an involuntary moan and ripped Peter's shirt open. He kissed his way down to Peter's nipples, and bit one lightly, drawing a moan from the other man. He traced a path down his chest, across his stomach, down to his groin. Peter gasped as Sylar unzipped his pants and freed his cock.

Sylar looked up at Peter. "I can stop if you like."

Peter paused, then responded, "Keep going."

With a smirk, Sylar opened his lips and took Peter in his mouth. Peter's mouth gaped in a silent scream as the man who was (or used to be) his worst enemy began to suck, moving his lips up and down his penis, his tongue swirling around the bare organ. "You seem… experienced," Peter managed between gasps.

Sylar paused, looked back up at Peter, and smirked. "I'm hardly a virgin, Peter."

Peter considered this for a moment. "How many people have you…"

"Had sex with?"

"Yes."

"53, counting you. Why, does it turn you on?"

"Just curious."

Sylar had since turned back to Peter's cock, and asked between slurps, "What about you?"

"W-…what?"

"How many people have you had sex with?"

"Maybe… four or… five."

"How many were men?"

"Just… one."

"How was he?"

Peter took a long time before responding. "You're… better," he said after a while.

Sylar smiled and bobbed his head up and down slightly faster. Peter couldn't say any more after that. His mouth agape, his head slightly up off the table, eyes closed, he reached his hands down to Sylar's head, grasped his hair, and began to push his head roughly up and down on his dick.

Peter moaned as he got ever-closer to his climax. Sylar's head was now moving up and down at light speed, and he had sneakily slipped off his pants and underwear, allowing a finger into Peter's tight entrance. Just before Peter came, though, Sylar stopped abruptly and got up.

"Wh-what'd you do that for?" Peter gasped. His fully erect member was begging for more attention, but Sylar ignored the temptation.

"I'm not through with you yet," he said huskily, before doffing his clothes and positioning his own rock-hard manhood at Peter's asshole. Peter had only seconds to prepare before Sylar plunged it into him.

With lubrication, anal sex was painful enough; without, it was sheer torture. After Sylar shoved in his cock, he stopped abruptly. "Relax, Peter, relax," he said in a soothing voice. "Easy for you… to say…" Peter grunted, his face screwed up in a tortured expression. Sylar sighed and closed his eyes. Suddenly, Peter felt a wave of calming images float through his mind: a beach at sunset, a beautiful field underneath a blue sky, a warm bath… And, as each image went by, he felt his muscles relax by degrees until they had totally acclimated to the presence inside him.

"Ready?" Sylar asked, concern on his face.

"Ready," Peter answered, bracing himself.

Sylar began to move in and out slowly, taking care not to cause Peter any more pain. He knew that it was fine, though, when he saw the beautifully contented expression on Peter's face. A cacophony of groans and grunts and moans came from both, each reveling in the experience they were sharing.

Peter came first, with a wild shout of "Sylar!" and an explosion of his sperm across his torso. It made his ass too tight for Sylar to resist any longer, and with a silent yell screaming from his lips, he let his own seed go into Peter's ass.

Sylar collapsed on top of Peter on the table. For a while all that could be heard was panting. Finally, they both were able to breathe normally again. After a long, comfortable silence, Peter said, "You aren't going to kill me."

"No, I'm not."

"And you're better now?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said you needed fixing. Are you still broken?"

Sylar thought for a long time. Finally, he slowly answered, "No. No, I don't think I am."

Peter stayed silent for a while, then, so quietly that Sylar almost couldn't hear him, asked, "What will you do with me?"

Sylar looked down into Peter's eyes. He knew that having Peter around was an absolute mistake; other people don't really help when you're a serial killer. But right now, he had an easy victim below him and he felt no desire to kill him, or anyone else for that matter. _Maybe I can be human again_.

"Stay with me," Sylar said. Peter smiled, a real, dazzling smile that made the fire in Sylar's stomach light up brighter than the sun.

"You sent me to Primatech, didn't you?" Peter asked.

"Yes."

"Thank you." He meant it.

***

Sylar teleported them back to Peter's apartment, and they were currently laying in bed together, with Sylar's arms wrapped around the quietly sleeping Peter. Suddenly, Peter starting saying clipped phrases in his sleep: "Don't leave me." "I love you." "Don't hurt me."

Sylar held Peter closer. "Shh, shh," he whispered. "Don't worry. I'm here. I'll protect you."

***

**Story Notes: Hey, it's actually done! I've been at this one for at least a month, and it kind of developed in a weird way; I didn't expect to go so sweet and hopeful with it, but that's what happened. I'm really proud of this, and it's quite possibly the longest thing I've ever written. I hope you guys enjoyed it, and review, review, review!**


End file.
